


put it on my record

by temerity (forsanethaec)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsanethaec/pseuds/temerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a nebulous thing, alright, post-feminism, and more nebulous still is Harry Styles. If that’s what Nick loves about her, then that’s just fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put it on my record

**Author's Note:**

> not actually all that much about post-feminism, but whatever. [shannon](http://anntwerkins.tumblr.com/) made me!! title is from magic by 1D because yolo bye

They’re rolling around in the grass in a park somewhere with Nick’s sunglasses slipping off her face the first time she realizes Harry doesn’t care about being papped. They’ve packed a bloody picnic and everything, because they do that, because Nick makes a joke about it and then Harry disappears into the kitchen for 20 minutes and reappears with a wicker basket and a floppy bow in her hair and her pink lips grinning, and Nick’s heart skips a little even as her mouth twists up.

“Fifties housewife popstar,” she says, and Harry curtsies, blushing cheeks and a flutter of her eyelashes and all. It’s kind of ridiculous how many times a day Nick realizes she’s utterly fucked for this girl, but there it is.

Now it’s summer and the day is blazing overhead and they’re both too pale to be out at this hour, and Harry’s t-shirt is skidding up her perfect stomach, her ridiculous hair all over Nick like some kind of lapdog. She’s laughing softly, little snorts into Nick’s collarbone, drunk on sunshine and wine out of a Thermos.

“Harry, darling.” Nick can’t help turning her nose into the top of Harry’s head, threading her fingers into her hair and tugging back until they’re both flat on their blanket where it’s warmest. “Not that I mind, but careful of your cameras, hm?” It’s not her most articulate effort. She knows Harry’s cautious when she wants to be; she’s just making sure they’re on the same page.

“Let them see,” Harry says, tossing her head and shaking the stray curls over her shoulder. She props her chin up on Nick’s shoulder, looking up close into her face. Nick’s pink fringe is in her eyes and she shakes it back so she can read Harry’s expression through the bleariness of a lingering, wine-drowned hangover.

“Little thing,” she murmurs, touching Harry’s cheek with one finger. Harry beams and nudges up closer, until her nose brushes Nick’s jawline. Nick disentangles them.

“Pack up your wine and cheese party,” she says, clambering up onto her knees and leaning down to whisper into Harry’s temple, “and let’s fuck off home,” Harry’s expensive perfume is carelessly light and tinged with the outdoors now, like the grass stains on the bum of her jeans. She nips up at Nick like a puppy, snagging Nick with a catch of chapstick almost at the corner of her mouth, and Nick falls back on her arse, scrunching her eyes and laughing.

Nick doesn’t kiss her until they’re in the cab, but it’s enough to know that she could have out in the open, that it seems like Harry would have allowed it, everything else being equal. Enough, anyway, for now.

 

Nick’s got to drag herself to the studio by about 5 a.m., which never gets easier and anyone who says it does is selling something, but she always takes a few precious minutes out of snooze or shower time to appreciate Harry in the early mornings: the dip of her bare back outside the sheets, curls spilling down against her spine. Her limbs a baffling arrangement that manages to take up the whole bed and the shadow patches of her tattoos in the unlit room. Drowning in one of Nick’s soft old sleepshirts as she snuffles into the pillow.

Best is when she clings on as Nick’s alarm jolts them both awake. Harry’s back to sleep within a second, and Nick edges at it for a few herself after slapping her iPhone into silence. She burrows into the loop of Harry’s arms, fits them together like she can keep it, feeling impossibly sad in the vulnerability of waking that she’ll have to leave this sometime in the next 180 seconds or so.

She always smiles thinking of Harry in that damned commercial as she shuffles to the shower, though, tripping over the clothes she’s shedding as she goes. Harry never actually needed cymbals to get her wide awake.

 

There’ve been pictures of the two of them in the tabs for weeks now, but it’s no trouble. Nick’s gotten the hang of skirting it on the show, smirking and batting her eyelashes even though it’s fucking broadcast and no one can see anything. But she fancies herself too much of a trailblazer to let herself become the subject of the gossip chatter on her own prime time radio hour. Glass ceiling and all that. Harry always gives her an indulgent little smile when she talks about shit like that, which is especially ridiculous considering Harry was about negative five years old when post-feminism was even a twinkle in Nick’s young eye. 

She supposes Harry’s post-feminism, such as it is, comes through in being one of the best-selling female British artists of all time alongside her silly bandmates, or in how even if she’s not out she’s not _not_ out either, in how at least she’ll tug Nick close to her when they’re clubbing in London, shove their thighs together interlocked and throw her head back laughing, which is an unspoken plea for Nick to suck on the hollow of her throat, which Nick will only do about two times out of ten. In how she drinks pints as well as shots and wears Nick’s clothes like they’re a boyfriend’s, all oversized at the tops of her pale thighs.

It’s a nebulous thing, alright, post-feminism, and more nebulous still is Harry Styles. If that’s what Nick loves about her, then that’s just fine.

 

It’s after the Brits that they get a little ill-advised. Nick’s got a Diet Coke clutched in her hand as they stuff themselves into the cab, which Harry refuses, patently, to stop laughing about for some reason.

“It’s just so funny,” she says, voice rough with drinking and her eyes bright. “Come on. Where did you even get that? Where are we going?”

“No idea,” says Nick. “Where are we going?” she asks the cabbie, and Harry dissolves into giggles. The man gives her a long-suffering look. “Sorry. Big tip,“ she says, which makes Harry giggle even harder. Nick gives her address and sits back.

There are camera flashes in the windows as they start to pull away at a snail’s pace, and she’s vaguely aware of a still-chuckling Harry locking the doors and then even more vaguely aware of Harry’s still-chuckling mouth bumping into hers with some sense of purpose and then stilling, Harry’s hands coming up to the corners of her jaw, Harry’s mouth sweet and hot with alcohol and her hair tumbling down between them. She pushes Nick’s bangs back with her thumb, nudges her knee over Nick’s thighs like she wants to straddle her. A forward lurch of the cab helps some, and Harry grins slow, crowding their bodies together. She always feels so tiny to Nick when she’s against her lap with Nick’s hands up the back of her shirt, undoing the clasp of her bra, and when exactly did that happen?

“Careful,” Harry says without an ounce of force behind it. The flashbulbs crowding against the smudged windows seem futilely distant. Nick’s never fucking cared about anything less in her life.

“Haz,” Nick rasps – then, “really?”

“No, you twat,” Harry murmurs, smiling. “Yes, really. Fuck it. I’ll give you twenty quid if you can re-fasten my bra.” 

“You know I’m far too old to manage such a thing,” Nick mutters. The cameras are behind them but it’s done, and she feels airy, elated, like nothing’s made her feel in a million years. “We burned our bras in my day.”

Harry mutters something about Gloria Steinem, and bunches her fist in the shaggy back of Nick’s undercut as she attaches her lips to the side of her neck.

Nick tips her head back as they drive and thinks of all the things she could buy with twenty quid. None of them, she decides, are worth getting Harry back into her bra.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [But She Kissed Me Like She Meant It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/961528) by [wardo_wedidit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit)




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